Category Archives: Interesting Articles

I have spoken to a number of men through the years who are virgins and have never had a sexual encounter with anyone. I have also spoken to men that have never had sexual encounters that were not paid for. I have also dated women that were virgins into their 20’s and knew women in their 30’s that never had sexual relations. For some people there is other pressing matters in their lives such has careers, family, or personal lack of self confidence. There are men that need someone to talk to and they are lacking that in their lives. That is one of the main reasons they enjoy talking to someone who does phone sex. It is not always about getting off but in a lot of ways they just want someone they can open up to. The big call centers offer a means of sexual gratification but one on one is not always possible because of how they are set up. With a person like myself that is self employed I may not be available 24/7 but I am someone that remembers past conversations. We can build long lasting conversations and to some degree relationships. This is not the same as a loving stable relationship with a person that is in one’s life because that is where they choose to be. However, the relationships built with someone like myself can be highly beneficial in their own right. A lot of times people are celibate because of fetishes they do not feel comfortable showing their true sexual beings to potential mates due to the fear of rejection. A therapist can make someone feel like there is something wrong with them but talking to a “real” person that understands and does not judge can be a happy median. It can a confidence builder for someone who has never had anyone to discuss these emotions with.

As discussed in “Confessions of an ‘Old’ Virgin” there are numerous feelings as to why someone would choose to remain celibate and most of them are misguided. Life tends to speed up on people and before they know it lots of time has passed and they have become complacent in where they are currently at. Humans have this quirk about them where when they get into a habit they tend to stay there even when that habit makes them miserable. Talking with a phone sex operator can help to break that cycle.

In The Flirtatious Fifties it is talking about being an older adult and the joy of having a stranger give you a little attention for just a snippet of time. This is not about the dangerous kind of flirting that causes people to get hurt or relationships to end that kind is not healthy. Having a stranger show you a little extra attention can make you feel good and them too. Flirting is actually good for a person it makes you feel that you are still a sensual person to someone other than your significant other. It brings out the best in people and is emotionally uplifting for a longer time then just the encounter. We often try to deny our sexuality especially women. We are taught by society that we should only have a sexual desire for our significant other. This of course is completely untrue strangers and off chance situations can be very stimulating. It does not mean we have to act on those feelings or that cheating is in any way acceptable behavior. Cheating is at its core lying and that is never okay to do with someone that you have built trust with. To innocently flirt with someone is harmless and in a lot of ways healthy for a relationship. We often become complacent with the person we are with the same sexual routine every night; which is comforting like our favorite meals. The issue becomes when we no longer feel the stimulation from the desire to have sex that we used to feel. Flirting can help kick start that desire especially in women the thrill of thinking about someone who is not going to actually have an detrimental effect on our lives is in a lot of ways like living a small portion of a romance novel. That fantasy can be enough to make a woman think about sexy lingerie, toys, or different positions. Flirting with someone if kept in check can help people feel sexy and wanted which during long term relationships sometimes gets lost in the daily grind. We all need to feel the butterflies for couples that have been part of each others daily routines. The day to day life can often take huge toll on the feelings of being a sexual being. The important thing is having the personal restraint and the respect of ones self as well as their spouse to keep it at an innocent stage.

I have a number of men that are into women with power. I came across this article and thought about all those guys that want to be completely controlled. Out of the ten rulers (they call them Queens but they were not all Queens) I chose some of my favorite ones to write about. So follow the link below and check out their list of really horrible women. There were a number of them I do not remember from history class but that is not surprising to me. Some of these ladies were extremely brutal on a one to one basis. To me sending out troops to kill massive amounts of people does not count as brutal.

Starting out with Queen Elizabeth Aka the Virgin Queen though most historians do not believe she was a virgin. Case in point she was known for having a number of lovers throughout her life. She was the daughter of Henry VIII so she came from a legacy of ruthless behavior. For those that are not familiar her father had her mother decapitated when she was around two years old and then declared Elizabeth illegitimate. Her rise to power was an ongoing family feud that ended with a number of family members dead or locked away for years of imprisonment. While Queen Elizabeth could be brutal to those in her inner circle her people under her rule prospered in numerous ways. While she is not my favorite brutal female ruler she does get honorable mention.

We now move to Queen Mary 1 Aka Bloody Mary she is another daughter of Henry VIII who’s mother though different from Queen Elizabeth was beheaded. Queen Mary was known for her murdering of close to 300 protestants due to religious upheaval in her country. This family obviously had some internal issues. Again while she was brutal in some ways she is not the winner in my opinion.

The winner for me is Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Escsed she is believed to be the most prolific serial killer of all time. Her victims are believed to be over 600. She enjoyed killing mainly young girls. She enjoyed dismembering people and bathing in their blood. While the thought of having a controlling woman I would think that someone of her nature is way over what men day dream about. Reading about her brutality makes a lot of men seem very weak in comparison. She was finally put on trial and placed in a tower for four years until she died in her sleep.

The question of what men find more attractive was answered in a way we all expected with a recent study. They chose a number of men randomly and dressed women in a number of ways to test different reactions. It was not suprising to me to learn that the higher a woman’s heel the more attention she received from men. A sensible shoe got little to no attention. A mid range heel around 2″ caused men to give a little attention. However, when a woman put on a pair of heels with a 3.5″ heel or higher men where far more recepttive to help her in a number of ways.

The men when asked sited such things as it seemed she was more attractive, more into dating, and more approachable. This is all very interesteting because femine movements often publish articles informing women to not wear medieval torchure devices. Yet all the women I know including myself have a strong pull towards high heels.

As a woman that really likes shoes I can attest to the fact that I do feel more powerful, sexy, and feminanine when I am in a pair of high heels whehter that heel is one a pair of stilletos or on a pair of leather boots. There is a lot of truth to a number of things stated in the article but in some ways I wonder if it is just becuase at least in the Midwest and South where I frequent women rarely wear high heels so it just different. There is also a feminine side to this that men really enjoy being part of as they rarely are in todays yoga and blue jeans fashion.

It was interesting the height they considered high heels in the article which was just 3.5 inches. There are a number of women out there that would consider that a mid range heel and would be more abt to where that on a daily basis instead of perhaps a 5 inch heel.

If high heels are your thing tell us about it in the comments. Do you agree with the article are men more attracted to a woman in heels? If you think they are then what is your input into why that is the case. Is it just because when a woman is wearing heels she tends to be wearing other things like dresses, makeup, hair done up and hose? Is it a case of the full package or is it heels specifically?

Have you ever noticed how people perceive things so differently depending on their character and personality? How some people can weather the greatest storms and crisis only to be undone by a small inconvenience, while others break apart the moment that something is just slightly out of step and they act as if they couldn’t even do the basics to get back on track?

Some people see everything that happens around them or is being said as a personal attack on them, even so the speaker or doer probably didn’t even have them in mind at all. Some people make huge Matterhorn type of Mountains out of a little hiccup happening, instead of just going with the flow and finding a work around for it.

Some people are not happy unless they get to complain about something. Anything at all, doesn’t matter but unless they get to be “annoyed”, “stressed out” or “miserable” about something and make other people the same way their day is just not complete.

Then you have those who are pretty easy go lucky. Oh hell yeah we get out knocks, our share of problems, our stress moments, but in general we understand that all those things are just part of life and will pass again. We tackle bad situations with a smile as much as possible and laugh at the stupid things that are going wrong, knowing that we are probably not alone in experiencing them.

Some take the success of others as a personal insult, while others are genuinely pleased when someone else is successful as well. Some have to be the ONLY one that matters, and others enjoy being part of a team and working together. Some try to give good and solid advice, others love to put those good hearted souls who give from their pool of wisdom down. Wow we human beings are sure enough one strange brew of personalities.

Regardless if business, life in general or relationships, some of us (including me) try to keep a largely positive outlook. Maybe because we did have enough in our life happening to us that we know this is really just a small issue, and that in the big picture there are a lot worse things happening to someone else or have happened to us in the past.

I know I have had those reminder kicks in my ass many times in the past. So aggravated about something that happened to me here on Niteflirt or somewhere else. Being angry, feeling indignation, how “dare they” do that to me. LOL… only they didn’t really do anything to me, I just happened to be caught in a developmental problem, etc. Just when I am working myself up in a nice little moment of righteousness (don’t you all love those?) I get an email from a friend telling me her husband just had to be taken to the Hospital with a heart problem. Boy did that put things in perspective for me. Oh yeah, my little self-important righteousness just flew with hyper speed right out of the window, and I actually felt ashamed of myself. Here I made such a big deal out of something that will be blown over in a few hours, while someone else out there is undergoing real issues.

Or like my silly ass laptop problems yesterday that literally caused me to stop having to work all day to fix it, but laughed about later on last night since I had just made the comment the day before that I really needed a day away from the phones and working on the laptop. Guess the universe gave me exactly what I thought I needed just not the way I expected it. Be careful what you ask for folks or ask for it in very specific terms. 😛 Either way I got what I wanted (no work or dealing with others for a day), but I sure had other stress moments (resetting all my computer stuff which took hours to get done), positive side so was that in between I got to sit back and read for a while which is something I love. I’d say the day wasn’t all lost was it? So thank you universe but can we please do it a different way next time maybe? Yes, I do look and always find the silver lining, because there always ends up being one if you look hard enough.

Now if you are the type of person that actually doesn’t enjoy being down all the time and you want to keep something in your arsenal that puts you back in a frame of mind that allows you to realize that most of the things we encounter here or in most areas of our life are really just tiny little things, buy yourself a copy of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos and watch the show from time to time. Go ahead, watch it and stand in awe for a while of something truly magnificent and great. If you still feel like you are the most important thing in the universe and that everything revolves just around you after watching that, I can’t help you further. I know for me when I get my moments of grandeur this pulls me off my throne real fast and reminds me just how truly insignificant I am in the big picture of the things around me. Special, unique, amazing – yes all those things just like you, but utterly insignificant in the long run. What a great thought if you think about it. It means you don’t have to carry the burden of the world on your shoulders any longer, even you Mighty Mouse get to take a break from the stress once in a while.

Have a lovely day and remember to be grateful for the good things in life.

Sometimes I think other countries that are considered more conservative are actully more open when it comes to sexuality. This is an old museum in Japan that is really quite neat in a number of ways. Here is an article that I am sharing about this really neat older facility :

When I wrote about the *Abandoned Japanese Sex Museum* in spring a lot of people seemed to enjoy my article – on Sunday I had the chance to visit the Hokkaido House Of Hidden Treasures, Japan’s other abandoned sex museum. It wasn’t bigger, but it was less artsy and a lot more explicit! This haikyo gave the term “ruins porn” a way deeper meaning…

“House of hidden treasures” – a Japanese euphemism to describe sex museums. In the 1960s pretty much every of the 47 prefectures in Japan had a sex museum, usually located in a small spa town somewhere in the mountains. Video did not only kill the radio star, it also made pornography widely available and started the decline of many sex museums – the internet finished the job 20 years later. Nowadays there are only a handful of sex museums in Japan (although you can barely call them museums as most of them are bizarre collections of art and what some weird people think art is…) and they are fighting for survival. The Hokkaido House Of Hidden Treasures (HHOHT) was no exception in that regard. Opened at a time when other sex museums started to close (1980), the HHOHT was equipped with the latest technology of the time (including a huge 3D pussy, created by a plastic, a gigantic lens and a mirror), but ran into financial trouble in the new millennium – closing was considered in 2007 (after lowering the entrance fee by 1000 Yen to 1500 Yen), but it seems like it was kept open for business until March of 2010, when thieves stole a Marilyn Monroe wax figure, a female wax figure with a snake around her neck, a belly dance doll and two travelers’ guardian deities. While most other sex museums get rid of their exhibits (by throwing them away or selling them) and then become another parking lot, the Hokkaido House Of Hidden Treasures became the haikyo Hokkaido House of Hidden Treasures – one of two known abandoned sex museums in Japan.

Much to my surprise the HHOHD was quite different from the *Abandoned Japanese Sex Museum* in Japan’s south. Instead of featuring dozens of wooden and stone statues the Hokkaido House of Hidden Treasures was stuffed with taxidermy animals – most of them copulating: Horses, elks, zebras, boars, lions, monkeys, all kinds of birds… I’ve never seen that many stuffed animals anywhere. And while most of the sculptures at this museum didn’t even seem to be made from real stone, all the taxidermy animals were real and in pretty good condition – if not for the sex part the museum should have been famous for its stuffed animals. But of course there was so much more to see: paintings, drawings, animatronics, a shooting game called “French Ponpon” (5 shots with a gun: 100 Yen), a huge vibrating penis to sit on, sculptures, shrines (dedicated to birth or equipped with penis shaped statues), and wax figures in a bizarre forest scene – starring a big red demon (with a surprisingly small dick) and a naked woman, being watched by horny, peeping or even mating animals. The most strange thing though was found on the basement floor – it appeared to be another shooting game. This time participants had to shoot “water” from a huge golden penis at a naked female doll. I’m sure when the Hokkaido House of Hidden Treasures was still in business it was all fun and games, but this time there was a victim. My haikyo buddy *Michael Gakuran* wanted to have a closer look at the naked woman and stepped into what seemed to be a concrete pool – except that the surface wasn’t concrete, but gypsum floating on top of the still intact pool; resulting in a mild shock and lots of wet clothes. In hindsight the water in the shooting game must have been colored white for a more “realistic” approach; a closer look at the female doll confirmed that assumption. (Luckily Michael’s equipment wasn’t damaged thanks to a water-proof camera!) Instead of going back to the car and changing clothes Michael dried himself and his stuff up as good as possible and continued shooting for 45 minutes with one bare foot! What a trooper, especially since the place was literally freezing cold. Most of the rooms had dripping water, and on the lower floor the water froze to icicles or drops on the ground! It was so cold I could see my own breath and after a while my fingers started to hurt – I can only imagine how Michael must have felt; who even refused to leave right away when we both heard some noise from the upper floor, followed by footsteps – because he hadn’t shot a pitch black room in the back yet…

The Hokkaido House Of Hidden Treasure was a massive location and a real photography challenge thanks to lots of dark areas, massive amounts of glass and really weird setups; not challenging but weird BTW was the sukiyaki and ramen restaurant above the museum – I left that part out completely as it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the sex museum itself. All in all Michael and I spent almost 5 hours at the HHOHT – more time than at any other place before except for the *Nakagusuku Hotel* in *Okinawa*. And it was well worth it – I barely ever shot as many interesting and unique photos before. I also recommend watching the walking tour I shot as it shows the setup of the museum much better than I could describe it with words and photos. Speaking of which – here they are…

Okay this is not exactly accurate but it is a fun industry that allows myself and a number of other women and men a freedom they would not have with a lot of other forms of income. It is an interesting article that I thought you would enjoy though. I think their dollar amounts are off at least continually most girls work a lot of hours and make decent money not the kind that would work out to $60 an hour every hour though.

“Ridiculously easy money,” my friend informed me and the rest of the Q train, smacking her gum and picking her nails in fingerless gloves. “I get a dollar a minute. I pay my rent in a week, and I’m free to audition. It’s fucking awesome.”

“I don’t know, I think I’d laugh.”

“No, I swear it’s so easy. You’ve done theater, you’re fine. At least try it. The only thing that sucks is the hours, but I’m up anyway.”

I hadn’t even thought about phone sex as a thing people did anymore. I figured it had been rendered obsolete by the Internet, but I guess the niche was still big enough to keep moonlighting actresses afloat. It seemed like a fail-safe enough plan: it was anonymous and flexible, and it could tide me over until I found a “real job.” I was a few years out of college, then, and unemployed. Actually, I had just come back from a stint teaching in China, and though I now spoke Chinese and had some marketable skills, I got back just before the recession let up a little and doctoral candidates were clawing each other to death for a shot at being a barista. I figured I wasn’t above this. There was nothing to really even be above, it’s just talking on the phone.

There was no interview process at all. I called the number my friend gave me, and I spoke directly to the owner, Tammi, a woman I never met in person, who ran the operation from an outpost somewhere deep in rural America. I was surprised by how sweet and young she sounded and pictured a woman with fluffy blonde hair who decorated predominantly with pink.

“Phone sex is something I love, and I’m actually getting paid for doing something I love. I really feel like I’m living the dream. I really feel blessed. Do you masturbate a lot?”

“Um—”

“I do. Every call. Every single one. I really feel like that’s important, you know?”

“Sure.”

“It sets us apart. I care about all my girls and my clients as people. And I want you to know that you’re beautiful and this is a safe place for you and you can tell me anything.”

“OK.”

I had no idea to what extent she believed herself. She asked me what I was into, sexually — what were my turn-ons and what were things I would never, ever do, no matter how into the other person I was. I asked her if all that was really relevant, and she said absolutely. This was all very important for the formulation of my character. Daytime TV blared in the background and she typed furiously.

“OK, so, c’mon, sweetie. What do you like? Are you into S&M?”

“Like, me, the real person? No, but I don’t see how—”

“I bet you wouldn’t have anal sex. I’m not judging you at all, I’m just getting an idea of who you are.”

From that point on my real name was relegated to my paychecks, and she referred to me as Violet no matter what we were talking about.

When I logged into the website, my character would appear as available and calls to the main line could be re-routed to my personal cell phone. I could sign in and out as I chose, but heaviest traffic time was 10 p.m. to 3 a.m. Violet would be assigned an appropriate porn actress stock photo to serve as a profile picture for the site’s front page, but I was responsible for fleshing out the rest: backstory, a list of turn-ons and areas of expertise, and a set of headless nude and semi-nude selfies for strangers to beat off to. I thought that would be the most cringe-worthy part of the whole business, until I was told that Violet should keep a blog. I asked what about and she said, “Fantasy!” At this point, I was almost ready to back out, but $60 an hour is nothing to sneeze at. If I can talk the talk, I guess I can commit it to paper.

“OK, great, so I guess this covers everything. Can you be ready to take calls in, I don’t know, a few hours?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

I had no idea what to do. Dignity wasn’t really a factor in any of this, but I did feel like I wanted to keep it a secret. I was living in a house with four guys at the time, and while we were all friends and they were “artists,” the prospect of them hearing me fake orgasms and wax lustful over some esoteric fetish made me uncomfortable, so I took to the attic. Vast and in disuse, it made a suitable office once I lined a corner with carpet samples, the only major drawback being that the windows would have to remain closed, rendering the place oppressively stuffy and absolutely stifling in the summer months.

I sat in the living room with my phone in my hand. I’d done theater, and I’d always wanted to try improv. Maybe this could serve as my time to test the waters. Nothing to be nervous about. Just one human being on the other end. One human being who was paying for my expertise in something I knew nothing about. What if I picked up the phone and some guy wanted me to “dominate” or whatever? If I were paying almost $100 an hour for someone to be my aural dominatrix and all they could muster was, “Oh, you’ve been so bad, you should be punished?” I’d demand my money back. Oh, what was I thinking?

By this point I had been logged in to the site for an hour, and nothing. I minimized the page and tried to distract myself with YouTube videos, to no avail. At the first ring of the phone, I grabbed it and made a mad dash across the apartment and upstairs, tripping over everything along the way. Pots and pans and roommates tupperware had planted themselves in my path. I threw myself through the kitchen back door. Weeks of neglected garbage blockaded the attic, and I swept it aside in one swift shove, slathering my arm with congealed something.

An automated message informed me that I had received a request for a 30-minute call and had 30 seconds to press 1 to accept it. I slammed the attic door behind me and fumbled with the lock, scrambled up the stairs, sat in my corner, took a second to collect myself, wasn’t able to, and hit 1.

“Hello, this is Violet.” I was still out of breath, which was probably a good thing.

Had I any time to process it, I would have been flabbergasted at my luck, stumbling into a call and response situation like this. I didn’t even have time to worry about laughing, even when he told me to say things like, “You will wear this leash and walk around town in my underwear and I don’t care who sees you and I don’t care if it makes you cry.” I don’t think I came close to being a convincing actress, but Mark didn’t seem to care. Maybe this was auspicious; maybe they’d all be like this. I was actually starting to get confident, but then he turned the tables on me.

“Now, I want you to suck my dick! I want you to suck my dick right now!”

“OK!”

I was not prepared for this intense a foley session. I couldn’t suck on my hand, I was covered in garbage. I started making out with my clean arm.

“I’m gonna come so hard on your face, Violet, do you want that?”

“Um, yes?”

“Are you gonna come, too?”

“Um, uh-huh?”

“Are you coming right now?”

Fuck.

I’m Meg Ryan. I’m Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally and we’re at Katz’s and the whole crew is here, all the union guys and the extras and everyone is in on the joke and we’re all gonna laugh so hard at this and then they’re gonna tell me I’m brilliant. Even though the dialogue is a little forced. Maybe we all think we’re a little bit better than the script, but we’ve committed to this project, goddammit, and I am a seasoned actress and everyone here is attracted to me! And, cut!

My friend was right. Piece of cake.

Julia Hebner is a Brooklyn based writer and filmmaker, and is currently developing her phone sex experiences into a film. This article is part one in her series. Come back next week for the second installment.

(Elle.com) — I am not sure what caused me to start sleeping with married women, especially ones who were much older than I was. The easy explanation is that I was abandoned by my mother, and so I wanted to have a relationship with someone who would comfort me the way a mother can a child. The truth, as with everything involving love and sex and loss, is more confusing to me.

The single most important event in my life is my brother’s accident. When I was 10 and my brother 14, he dived into a swimming pool, struck his head on the pool’s bottom, and remained underwater for three minutes. When he was pulled out, he could no longer walk or talk. He could no longer roll over in his sleep. His corneas had been destroyed because of oxygen deprivation. As he lay in his hospital bed, his eyes would move around like a blind person’s.

Anup was in hospitals for two years before my parents brought him home and we started taking care of him ourselves. The stress of caring for someone so incapacitated is astonishing: bathing Anup in the morning, feeding him, cleaning him up, exercising him so that his tendons didn’t shrink and his body didn’t fold in on itself. To a 12-year-old, the experience was terrifying.

Even though I was with my parents every day, I don’t think I fully understood their suffering. They were constantly angry. The walls of our house vibrated with rage. When they attacked each other and me, it was almost as if the intention was to destroy. Once, my mother said to me, “People wouldn’t spit on you, if it weren’t for me,” meaning that nobody would waste his spit. (My mother denies saying this, which I explain by the simple fact that the person who has been hurt remembers who injured him, while the person causing the harm has reason to forget what she has done.) Because I sometimes get angry at my parents and yet at other times feel only tenderness (when I wrote an autobiographical novel, the only title that I could find that contained all the contradictions was “Family Life”), to me, my childhood is only a variation of what others experience.

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Before the accident, I was a typical little boy. I was in love with my mother. I thought she was as beautiful as a movie star. Sometimes I would feel shy around her, the way I later felt around women on whom I had crushes. To be shouted at by her, to be treated as loathsome, made me feel unloved and unlovable.

After we brought Anup home, our house began to attract all sorts of strange people. Among Indians, the act of sacrificing for others is often viewed as holy, sacred. Scores of women visited our house and asked for my parents’ blessing. They would kneel before them, and my parents would put their hands on the visitors’ heads. Often, my mother, desperate to find a fix for my brother, invited miracle workers to visit Anup. Some of them made grand claims: One said God had visited him in a dream and told him how to awaken Anup. “If a cure is free and causes no harm,” my mother would say, “then why not try?”

In that chaotic time, one of the people we got to know this way was a woman named Hema. Hema paid me a great deal of attention, including buying me comic books. Her kindnesses felt like a mistake — like she must be misunderstanding the situation if she were offering sympathy to me rather than to my brother — but also like a miracle.

I began seeking her out. When she came to our house, I’d rush around making her tea or bringing plates of biscuits; another guest once teased that I was her shadow. After speaking with Hema, I’d feel relieved, as if I had left a crowded, noisy room and was now in the open air.

One day when I was 15, Hema and I were sitting at a table, and she told me that whenever she took a shower, she would imagine how my lips might feel against hers. Hema was in her early 40s, and I can honestly say that until then I had not thought of her in a sexual way.

We started meeting at the public library. I would bike there, and she would pick me up in her car. I’d lie on the floor and she’d drive me into her garage. Then, we would go upstairs to her bedroom and have sex, she lying on a towel on top of her bedsheets. Other times we drove to a corner of our local mall’s parking lot and had sex there. After we had sex for the first time, I was so happy that for days I couldn’t stop running around the house. I would start at a walk and then find myself speeding up and trotting from room to room.

The combination of sex and secrecy was incredibly potent. Standing before the library doors in winter, the wind whipping me, I would have an erection and a dry mouth. The secrets made me feel like I lived in a separate world from everybody else. Also, it was exciting that I could hurt Hema. I could ruin her marriage. I could cause her to lose her job. Power made me feel masculine.

I was glad to have this power over Hema, and yet I also loved her. If I did not see her for a day or two, I became heartsick. When she went away on vacation for two weeks, I began to droop so obviously that a relative of mine asked, “Majnu, have you lost your Laila?” Majnu and Laila are the Romeo and Juliet of India.

To help me overcome my longing for her, Hema suggested that I look at the moon at eight o’clock each evening and think of her, and she’d do the same. She had us say, “I marry you. I marry you. I marry you,” because she’d heard that Muslims may be married by saying this.

As we did these things, I felt guilty and dishonest. I did not think that we would have a future together; I could not imagine being willing to hurt my parents by marrying someone so much older than I was. (Now I am 42, and part of me still feels like I betrayed Hema by not marrying her. I know this is crazy. And I know that many children who have sex with adults think that they are equal partners in what occurs.)

The secrets also often made me feel invisible. Sometimes Hema and her husband visited our house. When this occurred, I felt ghostly, like someone whose reality could be denied. This not mattering, not being seen, was exactly what it was like to always have to put my brother first: to wake at a certain time every morning to bathe Anup, to be unable to leave the house if a nurse wasn’t on duty to exercise him or transfer him to his wheelchair, to be eating a meal only to have my mother call out to me to help my brother, because Anup could not wait. Not only did Hema reaffirm my invisibility, but, because she had a husband, my relationship with her also reaffirmed that I could not have what I wanted.

All of what was bad also contained wonderful, fizzy excitement. To be invisible meant not to have to be responsible or deal with the ordinary details of dating someone. While the anger and pain of feeling second to Hema’s husband mapped exactly my relationship with Anup, anger has its pleasures. The knowledge that I was f–king this man’s wife allowed me to take the vengeance that I could not take on my poor brother.

For me, the appeal of sleeping with married women has always been about being miserable in a particular way. I can feel special and I can also feel unimportant. I can feel wounded and simultaneously that I am taking revenge. I guess many adults try to recreate their childhood families, and so, though the specifics of my life are unusual, the effort to recreate home is not.

I was a bright teenager. I read widely and deeply and loved books with such a sincere passion that when I talked about them, I seemed charismatic. I was accepted into Princeton when I was in the 11th grade, and within a few months of entering college, I started sleeping with Nancy, a professor in her mid-40s. (Now I feel embarrassed at the pride I used to take at having older women as lovers. Looking back, I realize that these women were damaged in some basic way. Both Hema and Nancy, for example, told me they’d been sexually molested as children.)

Unlike Hema, Nancy was not concerned about keeping our sleeping together a secret. Her husband worked at the time in another state, and he had begun to have sex with men while away from his family. Nancy and I used to talk every night on the phone at about 11. One night, when I called, the phone was off the hook. Nancy was convinced that her son, who was in elementary school, had done this deliberately. She asked me what she should do. Seventeen, and playing at being adult, I said she should talk to her son about it.

Among the strange aspects of being with Nancy was that she expected me to act like a grown man. When we went out, I paid for dinner. At night, we sometimes watched “The MacNeil/Lehrer NewsHour.” When Nancy moved to be with her husband, I was glad she was gone.

When I dated single women, I tried to replicate some of the sense of having secrets, of not being truly committed, that sleeping with married women had allowed. When I was 19, I began seeing Susan, a woman in her early 30s; because we worked for the same company, we had to conceal our affair. Susan also wanted to continue seeing other men. I felt as jealous over this, as ashamed, as if she were married.

Sometimes I dated women who were my age, and I would urge them not to tell anyone about us. We would arrive separately at parties and mostly not talk where we could be seen.

To have secrets is to feel like one has done the unacceptable. I sometimes think that, for me, the unacceptable thing that I did was to live normally while my brother lay brain damaged in a hospital bed.

I had nightmares of shame every night, and I would sweat. I slept wearing a T-shirt and lying on a towel. In the middle of the night, I would wake up, take off my shirt, rub myself dry, and try to go back to sleep. Sometimes I sweated so much that my fingertips became as wrinkled as if I had taken a bath.

The last married woman I went out with was the wife of a friend. Brenda was beautiful, funny, smart. She was living abroad when we started our affair, and it did not last long. One afternoon, we were sitting in a car in her driveway, talking intensely, and something in our manner made her husband suspicious. He came out of the house and called out, “What are you doing with my wife?” A few days later, Brenda’s husband confronted her with his suspicions. She admitted to what had happened. This led to the end of two friendships that, despite my dishonesty, had meant a great deal to me.

It is nearly 20 years since I last dated a married woman. Mostly we grow at the rate of pain we’ve accrued, and for me, as the losses began piling up, one bad relationship after another, I started to realize that this could be my life forever. In fact, it seemed likely that this was going to be my life if I did not make a change.

I was on my third date with the woman who would become my wife when she told me that she had an airplane ticket to see a boyfriend in Montreal. At first I was excited. I could sense the old familiar dramas, all the unhappiness and shame. At the same time I felt exhausted. I did not want to do this again. I could not do this again. “You can’t go,” I said. “You have to make a choice.”

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Twitter Time

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